


anything thought to be so sweet

by mxmushroom



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aftercare, Age Play, Blowjobs, Cis Martin Blackwood, Consensual Dubious Consent, Crime Time, Daddy Kink, Do Not Archive, Established Relationship, Fingering, Fluff and Smut, Grinding, I Mean It Do Not Fucking Archive!, I'm going to horny jail, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Oh also, Oral Sex, PWP, Sort of? You can read it that way, Stuffie Grinding?, Trans Jonathan Sims, anyway, but fluffy, i guess?, innocence kink, more smut than fluff though, no beta we die like a ruined world, thigh grinding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 09:07:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30103578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mxmushroom/pseuds/mxmushroom
Summary: “Tell me what you want, Jon.”Having Martin so close made it hard for Jon to think straight, but he managed to whisper, “I want to be yours. I want you to take care of me. I want you to keep me safe. I want to be good for you, Martin, I want to be your good boy.” He pressed his face into the crook of Martin’s neck, nervous, feeling himself blush. But he was too far gone to be really embarrassed now.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 11
Kudos: 71





	anything thought to be so sweet

**Author's Note:**

> i really don't know what to tell you. PLEASE mind the tags for this one! there's sexual ageplay here! that's a pretty big squick for lots of folks so just be careful.  
> jon's essentially using ageplay to forget about his Very Stressful Job As A Harbinger of Terror?  
> there's negotiation & aftercare in the fic & this is all consensual, though martin's pretty firm during the scene itself, & there's some sort of ageplay/innocence kink-typical confusion/hesitation on jon's part.  
> jon's definitely in subspace, but i haven't really written him as a "little"- the daddy kink stuff is largely sexual, here, not a general relationship dynamic.  
> title from presumably dead arm, by sidney gish.  
> terms used for jon: cunt, cock, slick, folds, wet.  
> no references to jon's chest besides his nipples, but my hc jon has had top surgery so make of that what you will.

Martin’s always found it adorable, how _easy_ Jon is. His days at the Institute are long and only getting longer, and Martin sees the way his brow furrows, how the lines at the corners of his mouth are a permanent mark of anxiety. Jon had asked him to keep things discreet, if not secret, so he can’t soothe Jon at the office the way he’d like to. Instead, he settles for leaving steaming cups of orange pekoe on the corner of his desk with little packets of cream and sugar, how Jon likes, and offering to alphabetize the files from 1992. 

Jon responds to these gestures indifferently, but his eyes always soften, and he always lets a tenderness creep into his tone. “Thank you, Martin,” he’ll say, and push his spectacles up, bending back over his interminable stack of musty old papers.

Perhaps it’s because of the job, the disarray of the myriad papers he’s desperate to get organized or Elias’ constant drone about funding and donors and public image, that Jon arrives home each night so exhausted. He wrestles off the tie he wears mostly for show, takes his hair out of the loose braid he’s taken to wearing to keep it off his face. 

At home, Martin can care for him properly. 

And Jon melts into it, his eyes going big and doe-like, his face open and questioning. Martin loves Jon like this, fuzzy and cooperative, as he slips into the space where he doesn’t need to worry, doesn’t need to be in charge, doesn’t need to prove himself to anyone.

He’d been embarrassed the first time he broached the topic with Martin. It was early in their relationship, before the first time they’d fucked, harried and desperate on the chair in Jon’s office, even before they’d really made things official between them. Martin had made dinner. It was an elaborate affair, linguine coated in a light, creamy sauce, garlicky and bright, and they’d shared a bottle of white wine and played Martin’s preferred Mozart concerto. Jon had felt properly _romanced_ , which was a feeling he hadn’t had in almost a decade, and perhaps that was why he didn’t stop himself from blurting: 

“It’s nice, the way you take care of me.” 

Martin shrugged. “Somebody ought to,” he joked, draining his glass with a put-on air of nonchalance. 

“Listen,” Jon began, but Martin kept talking, words spilling out of him anxiously. 

“I just think, you know, you really do work yourself too hard, or, Elias does, anyway, and it’s just that I hate to see you like that. You wouldn’t even eat if it weren’t for me, would you?”

Jon bit his lip. He’d never broached this topic with a partner before. He’d never felt safe enough to. “I’d like…” He paused, catching his breath. 

“Jon?” Martin’s voice was warm, honeyed with the gentle concern that always made Jon melt, despite how he might pretend to bristle at it during work hours. 

“I’d like you to keep taking care of me,” he murmured. He wanted to meet Martin’s eye, to show him how genuine he was being, but the vulnerability rushed up against him in a terrifying wave and he found himself gazing down at his hands in his lap.

Martin leaned over; Jon heard the shifting of fabric before he felt two fingers, firm and gentle under his chin, tipping his face up. “Look at me, love.” Martin’s voice was quiet, husky. “I’ll always take care of you. Right?” 

Jon nodded. He could feel fog around the edges of his thoughts, but he couldn’t give in, tempting as it was. He needed to be clear, to tell Martin what he wanted. What he needed. He swallowed. “I know.” 

Martin kissed him, and Jon sighed, a sweet little sound from deep in his throat. “You’re mine, aren’t you?” Martin whispered, and Jon assented with a little keen. 

“It’s hard,” he whispered. His eyes were wet, though he hadn’t noticed himself start crying. He cursed himself. _God._ Couldn’t he negotiate kink like a normal adult person? He pressed on. There wasn’t exactly an easy way to back out of the conversation at this point, anyway. “Being… in charge all the time. Responsible for everyone. Making sure no one gets hurt, I… Martin.” 

Martin was close to him now, his warm hands caressing Jon, soothing him. “Yes, love. I’m listening. It’s okay.”

“My whole life, I’ve been _worried_ , Martin.” Jon’s voice broke. “I can’t remember the last time I felt safe.” 

“Oh. Jon.” Martin sounded sad and Jon almost panicked, worried he’d said the wrong thing. But Martin stroked a hand through his hair, and Jon tilted his head into the soft, repetitive motion, letting it calm him as he finally met Martin’s eyes. The firm, authoritative affection he saw there made something stir in his gut, and he finally smiled. 

“Sometimes I just want to be little again. You know. Innocent.”

Martin nodded. “Carefree.” 

Jon shifted to clamber into Martin’s lap, and Martin let his arms wrap around Jon’s smaller frame, holding him tightly, close. “Mmhmm,” he mumbled into Martin’s shoulder. 

“Tell me what you want, Jon.”

Having Martin so close made it hard for Jon to think straight, but he managed to whisper, “I want to be yours. I want you to take care of me. I want you to keep me safe. I want to be good for you, Martin, I want to be your good boy.” He pressed his face into the crook of Martin’s neck, nervous, feeling himself blush. But he was too far gone to be really embarrassed now, his mind fogged, his throat tight, an uncomfortable pressure building in his lower stomach

Martin moved his hands so one stroked Jon’s back, the other cradling him under his arse. “Do you want daddy to take care of you, sweet?” Even in this state, Jon could hear the thick desire in Martin’s voice. He nodded eagerly. 

“Please… daddy.” The word felt strange and familiar all at once on his tongue, and saying it, saying it to _Martin_ of all people, sent a jolt of pleasure down his spine. 

“Well.” Martin shifted Jon so that he was forced to meet his eye. Martin was smiling warmly. He looked so pleased with Jon, Jon couldn’t help but smile back. “If that’s what you want, love, we’ll need to set a few ground rules.” 

They had, then, and later, spent weeks laying out Jon’s boundaries, choosing his safeword, outlining Martin’s hard nos. Jon insisted on making a flowchart of pet names and titles that hung on the fridge for a week before they settled on their preferences. And Martin had rewarded him with the soft flannel nightie Jon wears now, the stuffed giraffe he’s clutching to his chest as he waits for daddy to get back from the shops. He’s curled up on the couch, the television playing something or other, but he can’t focus. 

It makes him nervous, being here alone. The house makes strange noises, shifting into the ground, the water in the pipes echoing with rushing sounds through the thin walls. He knows he can manage it, Martin’s assured him of that, but he still finds himself glancing anxiously out the window, listening for Martin’s heavy gait up to the front door. 

When daddy comes home, they’ll eat supper together. Martin will let Jon help cook, putting a pot of water on to boil or grating cheese or measuring out ingredients. He’ll ask Jon all about his day, and tell Jon about his own. He’ll complain about traffic, or insurance, or other things Jon doesn’t particularly care to think about. He’ll act interested though, because he loves how Martin talks. He loves how pleased Martin is when Jon listens well, and the way Martin touches him after. 

And after dinner Martin will find something for them to do, something fun to reward Jon for helping so well with everything. Maybe he’ll ask to watch a movie tonight, Jon thinks. Yes, he’d like that, to be curled up here, where he is now, but on Martin’s lap, trying his best to be quiet even though he wants to talk all the way through the show. Martin always shushes him gently. His chiding embarrasses Jon, and he always finds himself going pink.

Thinking about his daddy makes Jon less anxious, and he finds himself lost in thought, imagining Martin’s strong arms wrapped around him, the kisses Martin will plant on his head and neck if Jon is good and quiet. 

Jon shifts, rubbing his thighs together. Martin insisted Jon wear the nightie without his panties today, and Jon complained, the coolness of being exposed making his tummy flutter with nervousness and something else he’s not quite sure of. The friction of his shifting legs feels funny, and he tries to ignore it, to think about daddy instead. After the movie, daddy will bathe him. He’ll wash his hair, his big, soft hands gentle on Jon’s scalp. When Jon moves, he feels the rough flannel against his chest and lets out a little sound at the sensitivity that meets him. Where’s Martin? 

He lays down on his stomach, pouty, but it doesn’t make the tingling feeling between his legs go away. A hot spark of guilt ignites in him; he knows daddy is the only person who’s supposed to make Jon feel like this. But when he squirms uncomfortably, he feels a pleasant pressure build, and he doesn’t want to stop. His mind is flooded with thoughts of Martin. Bouncing him on his thigh, the blunt friction making Jon whine and squirm against his leg until he leaves a dark wet mark where he sat. Martin assuring him that’s all right, it means Jon loves him, that daddy’s giving Jon what he wants, what he needs. Other memories mingled with fantasy rush up all at once: Martin playing lightly with his folds and reassuring Jon that it’ll feel good, daddy will take care of him. Waking up with daddy behind him, shifting to make daddy grow and get hard and being reminded that it’s _not_ nice to get daddy worked up without taking care of him. Martin takes such good care of Jon, after all. Shouldn’t Jon take care of him too? Jon’s fingers being guided, Martin’s grip firm around his wrist as he eases Jon’s hand up and down.

Jon lets out a little moan, rutting his hips forward onto the fabric of the couch. He can feel slick dripping between his thighs, making his movements smoother, but there’s nothing here to rub on, and he’s all flustered frustration as he squirms. He wants something, wants _more_ , and clambers up so his giraffe is clutched between his hot thighs, the soft bulge of its body firm against the parts of him that daddy has such sweet names for. He humps forward and moans at the tingly, hot feeling that’s spreading out from his wetness and through his whole body. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he feels guilty, but his body feels out of his control now, and the rhythm he finds is at once too much and not enough. He cries out.

There’s a click from somewhere that feels far-off to his hazy, unfocused mind. 

“Jon?” 

Jon jolts into startled stillness as Martin’s voice echoes down the hall and into the living room. He tries to compose himself, to sit up, but his face is flushed, his hair out of place, and he _smells_ of sex, heavy and musky. And even as he moves, a hand sneaks between his legs, and he ruts against his wrist.

“... Daddy?” 

Martin’s looking at him with disapproval and affection. He sets down the tote bags filled up with groceries, and sheds his jacket, though he doesn’t bother to hang it. Jon swallows, nervous. “What’re you doing, love?” Jon can tell from Martin’s voice that he’s looking for a specific answer, that he’ll know if Jon lies. 

“I’m sorry, daddy,” Jon whines. His eyes are wet, his face red, and the look on Martin’s face makes him feel guilty. He _knows_ he needs daddy if he wants to touch himself like this. He can’t do it alone. And Martin looks hurt, almost, though there’s something else behind his eyes, too. “I _missed_ you.”

He sits down beside Jon on the sofa, his weight and warmth a comfort that Jon instinctively curls in towards, pressing his mouth into Martin’s chest and wrapping his arms around his bigger form. 

“Did you miss me?” Martin asks. “Or were you just being impatient, love? Can you just not wait for daddy?” 

Jon shakes his head furiously. “No!” He kisses Martin’s cheek so he’ll know that he’s sincere. “No, daddy, I promise.” 

“Maybe I should let you deal with this one on your own,” he muses. “Since you think you’re big enough to know better than daddy, hmm?” 

Jon’s crying openly now, but even as he scolds him, Martin’s wiping the wetness from his cheeks. “Shh, shh,” he whispers. “I know you’re sorry, love.” 

“I am.” 

“So will you tell daddy what you were doing, Jon? Use your words, now.” 

Jon has to stop himself from whimpering. “Felt nice,” he whispers. “I wasn’t touching.” 

“No, you weren’t,” Martin agrees. “Tell me how it felt, love?” One of his hands has found its way up Jon’s nightly, his other arm easing Jon fully into his lap so he’s straddling the wide girth of Martin’s thigh. Jon feels something pinch at the sensitive nub of his nipple and lets out a hot breath, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“ _Mmm,_ ” he whines, and Martin twists a little so it hurts. 

“I asked you a question, baby.” 

Jon rocks forward and a jolt goes through him. “Felt tingly, daddy,” he admits. “And… warm.” Martin feels himself stiffening at the way Jon slurs his words a little when he’s this deep in subspace, and he guides Jon’s hips a little. It doesn’t take much to ease Jon into grinding against his thigh enthusiastically, mouth hung open just so. 

“That sounds very nice.” Martin feels his voice low and husky in his throat. 

“Mmhmm.” Jon chokes a little on his words. “Was. Nice.” He’s clinging to Martin’s neck a little desperately now, and Martin can feel where his slick is dampening Martin’s jeans, the heat of Jon’s cunt against his leg, the quick and uneven, desperate motion of his hips. “Want more.”

“Oh, do you, love?” 

Jon nods. 

“What do we say, then, baby?” 

“ _Please_.” 

Martin just raises his eyebrows, looking at Jon with cool expectation. 

“Please, daddy,” Jon amends. 

“That’s it, love. Good boy.” Martin bounces his thigh up and Jon lets out an intoxicating sound. “You like this, don’t you, baby?” Martin chuckles. “Little slut. Good.” 

Jon whines. “M _not_ … I’m good. I am. I _am_.” He’s rambling, mumbling incoherently into Martin’s shoulder and Martin thinks he might come just at Jon’s frantic rutting and the sound of his voice, so he uses both his arms to still Jon’s body and move them both all at once, so Jon’s sat between Martin’s legs, Martin’s cock pressing into the space just above Jon’s ass. Jon’s legs spread instinctively, and Martin laughs at the way his put-on innocence falters there at the promise of finally being touched. But Martin is patient, always has been. He traces lightly over the soft skin of Jon’s inner thighs, sticky with desire and twitching at Martin’s teasing. 

Jon lets out a shaky breath. “What… what are you doing?” 

“Shh,” Martin commands. “You asked for more, didn’t you, baby?” 

“Uh-huh.”

“Then let daddy make it feel good, okay?” 

Martin’s voice always soothes him, and Jon relaxes into it as Martin traces one finger down his slit. It comes away wet, gathering slick from Jon’s entrance, and Martin tries, really tries, not to moan, but he can’t help it. Jon’s utterly undone, here, his body limp and loose, his cunt dripping, and Martin teases around the stiff curve of his cock. Jon squirms at the touch and Martin feels his own erection twitch, feels pre-come leaking from his head. 

“Daddy?” 

“Shh.” 

“Something’s poking me.” 

Martin laughs a little, quietly, and Jon pouts. “That just means I like this, love,” he assures him. “Daddy likes to make you feel good.” 

He knows it won’t take much to push Jon over the edge. He’s always been easy, sensitive, and scenes like this only make him quicker to let go and come, shuddering, against Martin’s hand. But Martin’s not finished with Jon quite yet, and leaves his cock be for the moment, despite Jon’s whining protests. He slides a finger in, whispers, “How does that feel?” 

“‘S good.” Jon’s quiet. 

“I can’t quite hear you, baby,” Martin encourages him, and Jon tries again, though his voice shakes. 

“It feels _good_.” 

“Good boy.” Martin fucks in slowly, relishing the wet heat of Jon’s cunt around his hand, the warm pressure of Jon’s body against his own, the careless way Jon ruts into his motions and cries out without his usual shyness or embarrassment at the sounds he makes. “God, you’re so good for me, love. You’re doing so well. That’s it. Come on, love. Just a little longer, okay?” 

“ _Daddy_ .” Jon sounds frantic, frightened, and Martin takes the signal to increase his tempo, to let the heel of his hand press against the place where Jon’s cock just pokes out from his folds. “More,” he begs. “ _More_.” 

He finishes then, hard and all at once, whimpering Martin’s name as his cunt clenches rhythmically around Martin’s hand. Martin sighs. The sight of Jon has him so hard it hurts, but he knows Jon needs a moment, always does. He pulls out slowly, carefully, and eases his fingers into Jon’s mouth. “There you go,” he whispers. “You did so well, love. Clean up for me, now.” Jon’s lips part eagerly, almost without Martin’s encouragement, and he sucks too hard at the fingers, licking his slick off them. 

When he turns to kiss Martin, Martin doesn’t let him. He pushes Jon’s hand down to his belt, guides him in undoing it, in pulling down the zipper. Jon looks exhausted, so he pushes his briefs down just far enough to free his cock from the fabric. Jon’s eyes widen, his pupils dilated and dark and clouded. 

Martin tuts. “Come on, baby. It’s not nice to tease daddy, is it?” 

Jon relents. “It’s just…” He lets a hand grasp at Martin’s shaft, the touch tortuously light on Martin’s skin. Martin lets out a sigh. 

“Just what, pet?” 

“I wanna…” He blushes, looks away. “Wanna taste you, daddy.” 

“Good boy. Give it a kiss, then, hmm?”

Jon’s lips are hot and dry where they meet Martin’s head, slick with pre-come and aching with want. He lets his mouth open a little, not quite enough, so Martin presses his hips up and Jon’s head down until Jon’s taken half of him into his mouth, filled enough to whine but not enough to gag, his eyes wet and wanting as he gazes up at Martin from where he’s wrecked and sucking eagerly at Martin’s cock. 

“That’s it, love. That’s it. You’ve been so good, love.” He pushes Jon’s head down further, showing him how to move. “You’re getting so grown up,” Martin whispers, letting words spill out as Jon’s mouth ekes pleasure from him. “You’ll be able to take daddy for real soon, baby. Hmm? Won’t that be nice.”

Jon lets out a little moan of affirmation, and the vibrations from his throat push Martin over the edge so he spills into Jon’s mouth. He feels the light suction as Jon swallows, instinctively, and Martin eases his hand up from the back of Jon’s head, letting Jon pull away. He watches Jon wipe his mouth on the back of his hand. “You knew just what to do there, didn’t you, little slut?” he teases, and Jon looks down, ashamed. 

“I thought you’d like it. ‘M sorry.” 

“No, no, baby. Daddy did like it. Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” Jon nods. He _is_ a mess, all moist with sweat and sore and open between his legs, his hair tangled and matted and his nightie wrinkled. He lets Martin carry him to the bathroom, but refuses a bath. 

“Too tired,” he whispers. Really, though, he feels the haze disappearing from him after his orgasm, and he’s exhausted, wants to be cleaned and fed and settled down for the evening as quickly as possible. Martin makes him test the shower temperature with his wrist before guiding Jon in, letting him lean against the wall while he washes Jon’s hair, soaps his back. 

After a long silence, Jon speaks up, his voice clearer now, and lower. “You all right, Martin?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that was good.” He stifles a yawn. “Just. God. Been a _day_.”

Jon nods in agreement. “Do you need to cook?” 

“I really ought to.” A voice from Martin’s childhood echoes back at him, _We’ve got food at home!_ “I mean, I just bought everything.” 

Jon laughs. “Please. It won’t go off overnight, Martin, really. Let’s order in? Please? I’m… tired.” 

Martin’s brow furrows in concern. “Good tired?”

“ _Yes_ , good tired, Martin. Really.” Jon turns to rinse his hair, leans up to kiss Martin in reassurance. “You could move me around like that more often, you know.” 

“I don’t want to hurt you!” Martin protests, but Jon rolls his eyes. 

“You _won’t_. Come on. I’m hungry.”

It’s almost as good as the sex, these little moments after, Martin thinks to himself as he rings up the Thai place a few blocks away and settles Jon into the couch under a blanket big enough for the both of them. They curl up together, close, skin touching, and Martin feels the contented sort of possessiveness that makes him want to purr. Jon, here, Jon, vulnerable for him, Jon, smiling and making snide comments about out-of-date special effects on whatever brainless action film Martin’s selected for them. He’s almost dreading the moment the doorbell will ring, and he’ll be forced to get up.


End file.
